


the higher fidelity

by birdsofthesoul



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: California, Family Dynamics, Gen, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27757195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdsofthesoul/pseuds/birdsofthesoul
Summary: Bruce goes sheet-white, looking like Dick’s just cut him to the quick, and Dick can’t help but think they should have booked a flight, discretion be damned. This — this is why they don’t do road trips. Cars are like confessionals, cramped spaces built for coercing confessions, and neither of them are good with words.
Relationships: Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 34
Kudos: 234
Collections: Dick Grayson Fic Exchange 2020





	the higher fidelity

**Author's Note:**

  * For [abscission](https://archiveofourown.org/users/abscission/gifts).



> I'm really sorry this is so late! This started off as an entirely different story, before I realized it would be incredibly hard to make the deadline -- and as you can see, I did not make the deadline. But after the recent 'Tec storyline -- Robin in the Rain -- I thought this might fit better.

Dick finds the first postcard when he’s packing up his room at the manor.

There’s no signature, no message, no postage— just a sketch of the Oxnard shoreline, overlaid with the Gotham skyline of the sixties.

“Are you sure it’s Oxnard?” Bruce asks when Dick shows it to him. “It doesn’t _look_ like Oxnard.”

Bruce has never been to Oxnard, but Lucius Fox has done business there before. Bruce, at the very least, knows Oxnard is a modern town— nothing like the Old Gotham gracing the four-by-six index card Dick’s holding.

This is one of the differences between Bruce and Dick: Bruce is a city boy at heart. He has spent all forty-seven years of his life living in Gotham, where changes in geography translates to changes in architecture; he navigates by street names, buildings, man-made constructs.

Dick navigates by the shape of the land. After Bruce— after he left Bruce, he spent months driving up and down the 101, so he knows how the highway curves along the coastline, how the road hugs the mountain cliffs, where exactly California runs out of land.

“I know Oxnard’s shoreline like the back of my hand,” he says. “And so does Damian.”

Damian grew up in the desert; topography is one of his mother tongues, more familiar to him than the language Bruce speaks.

Bruce stares at the postcard, silent.

“Bruce,” Dick says— “Bruce.”

-

They take Dick’s car.

It’s nothing like the gleaming machines in Bruce’s collections; Dick bought it used in San Francisco from a secondhand dealer, and it never saw much action during his tenure as a Titan. Two years later, he totaled it on his way back to Gotham, got hit on the passenger side by a drunk girl in rural Iowa and spun out on the dusty farm road, and for a moment there he thought that this was it— that Bruce would have to bury another son after Jason. But Dick’s training had been thorough, and it did what it needed to do; he stopped the car just inches from an oak tree, and then he sat there, stunned, clutching his phone because he’d come so close to saying goodbye.

There’s no sign now that he limped home with half of his car obliterated. Bruce never saw the damage— he was bedridden with a broken back.

And yet—

“You rebuilt the car,” Bruce says, apropos of nothing.

They’re in a two star motel just off the 70 in Ohio, and Dick can already tell it’s going to be a sleepless night. The ice machine won’t stop humming, the AC rattles and wheezes like a dying man, and Bruce, who is both unstoppable force and immovable object, has uncovered something he was never meant to know.

“How could you tell,” Dick says without opening his eyes.

He hears the sound of sheets rustling as Bruce sits up. “You crashed the car,” Bruce says, and the devastation is clear in his voice. “You never called me.”

“Was it the seats?” Bruce is a car man— he knows the ’73 Charger only measured 77” wide, but the ’67 Impala spanned almost 80”. The bench seat in Dick’s Frankenstein Charger is a tight fit, but he makes it work.

Still can’t escape Bruce’s eagle eyes.

“That and the windows,” Bruce says slowly, like he’s piecing together a puzzle. “The glass is Wayne tech.”

“What do you want me to say?” Dick opens his eyes. 2:34 AM stares back in bright red digits, and he has to stifle a sigh. “You had enough on your plate at the time. I wasn’t hurt— I didn’t want you to worry.”

There’s no sound from the other bed.

“Go to sleep, Bruce,” Dick says, turning on his side to face the wall. “We can talk in the morning.”

-

They don’t talk about this in the morning.

It’s a long drive to Oklahoma City, where they’re bunking for the night, and they spend it looping through the three BOC tapes Dick has in his car. Dick is driving— he gets to pick the music, and every time he thinks Bruce is going to bring up the car crash, he turns up the volume.

They’re sitting in a nondescript diner when Bruce asks, “Why didn’t you call me after you’d crashed?”

Heads don’t swivel to gawk at them, but it’s a close thing.

Dick sets down his burger, appetite gone. “We weren’t even really talking at the time,” he says, when it becomes clear that Bruce isn’t going to touch his steak until Dick gives him a straight answer. “The reconciliation happened after I came home, remember?”

“Still,” Bruce says—

“Your back was broken and you were checked out on pain meds half the time. What was the point in calling?”

“If this happened to Damian,” Bruce says, voice shaking now, “you would want him to call.”

“What do you want me to say, Bruce? That I was still mad at you, even though I was coming home? That I didn’t want you to think I was only calling to get you to foot the bill?”

“I would have,” Bruce says quietly. “I would have wired you money for a plane ticket and told you to leave the car wherever it was.”

“You would have put me on the first flight back to San Francisco.” A Dick who almost died in a car crash was a man unfit to wear the Batsuit — Dick knew how Bruce’s mind worked, and he couldn’t risk leaving Tim at the mercy of Jean-Paul.

Bruce is shaking his head. “I would have brought you home.”

“Maybe,” Dick allows. “But given your track record, what did you expect me to think?”

Bruce goes sheet-white, looking like Dick’s just cut him to the quick, and Dick can’t help but think they should have booked a flight, discretion be damned. This — this is why they don’t do road trips. Cars are like confessionals, cramped spaces built for coercing confessions, and neither of them are good with words.

“Forget it,” he says, just as Bruce says, “I’ve failed you too, haven’t I?”

Dick can hear the heartbreak in his voice. The one thing Bruce thought he’d done right— but then again, Dick has never been a _thing_.

“You didn’t fail me,” he says, because that’s true. “It’s just that— look, after Dent worked me over with that bat, you went ahead and mourned me. You tried to bury me and move on with your life, but I didn’t even realize I was dead to you — I had to go through hell to get resurrected in your world. And that’s something you do every time I get hurt. You did it again after Dent shot me in the shoulder. I thought you might do it again if you learned about the crash, and I couldn’t afford to let you do that— not with Jean-Paul on the loose.”

Bruce doesn’t say a word.

“I’m not mad,” Dick says, and he thinks this is true too. “You tried to do better after KGBeast shot me. God knows you could have done a better job, but I didn’t make it easy for you either. You didn’t give up on me— I call that progress.”

It’s a low bar to clear, but considering Barbara’s reaction—

“You have very low expectations,” Bruce says, finally breaking his silence. He keeps his expression impassive, but Dick can see the sadness lurking underneath.

It’s almost enough to make him backtrack. “I’m not mad at you,” he repeats instead. “Can we just go?”

-

Dick has never taken Damian to Oxnard — he doesn’t have particularly strong opinions on Ventura County one way or the other, but it _is_ California’s flyover country, and Damian hails from Gotham. But he’s made many pit stops at Camarillo with Damian in tow, mostly to make use of the outlets’ currency services, which is probably how Damian grew familiar with the shape of Oxnard’s beaches— they’re printed on every outlet pamphlet.

He’s one day away from California when he realizes that the coastal town on the postcard is Camarillo— not Oxnard.

They come to this conclusion, separately, the night before they take the 101 to the coast. “It’s more secluded,” Bruce says, while Dick says, “It looks like Old Gotham,” and this, the different aspects of Damian they’ve homed in on, speaks to the distance between Bruce and Dick.

Camarillo’s historical district is a tourist trap, but it’s not large— it’s just a handful of restaurants and a two-star motel. Dick pumps gas outside of the outlets while Bruce tries to call ahead and book a room at the Bella Capri Inn.

There’s a sigh, and Dick looks up to see Bruce close his eyes in pain. “There’s only one King room left,” Bruce says. “Apparently Bruce Wayne is throwing the capes community a party on a reduced budget.”

Damian sure knows how to hit Bruce where it hurts.

“Can we at least get a cot?” Dick asks, trying to bite back a grin.

Bruce repeats that question, and judging from the thunderous look on his face as he hangs up the phone, he got a resounding no.

“We can share,” Dick reassures him.

“We’re getting an Airbnb,” Bruce tells him flatly. “If we get to Damian in time, we might not even have to spend the night in California.”

The room Damian’s so thoughtfully left for them is at the back of the inn.

“No one’s been in here for ages,” Bruce says, coughing a little when he finally gets the door to open. “No one’s _dusted_ in here for ages.”

There’s a postcard lying on the pillow — DIY at first glance, cut from construction paper, no postage.

Bruce inspects it carefully. “Did you ever take Damian to a parade?”

Dick takes the proffered card and flips it over. There’s no message on the back— just a sketch of three floats on the front. “It’s Ojai,” he says. He recognizes the architecture— Spanish Revival. “I took him there on Independence Day last year.”

They were getting coffee when the earthquake hit, and they didn’t even notice until Damian looked up and saw the light fixtures swaying gently. He heard later on the radio that it had registered a 6.4 on the Richter scale.

Up in Ojai, the earth barely shook.

“What’s in Ojai?”

“Not much. We were only there to get coffee.”

Bruce straightens. “You remember the name of the coffee shop?”

Of course he does.

Later, once they’re back on the freeway, Bruce says ruefully, “He’s really my son— he can’t bring himself to call and ask if you’ve recovered your memories. No, he has to plan a scavenger hunt on the other side of the country.”

And that’s true— Damian takes after Bruce in so many ways, and this is most certainly one of them. But running away from home, then doubling back to leave a note?

That’s all Dick Grayson.

There’s another postcard waiting for them at the coffee shop. Dick does laps around the parking lot, waiting for Bruce to come out with their coffees and the latest clue.

“It’s another beach town,” Bruce says, nonplussed. He takes a sip of his coffee— cinnamon, Dick notes with vague horror— and makes a face. “They messed up my order.”

“Did you Brucie Wayne them?” Dick asks, amused. “They don’t do half-caf/decaf here.”

They don’t do half-caf/decaf anywhere but Gotham, where the baristas willingly cater to Bruce Wayne’s ridiculous coffee orders.

“I did,” Bruce says, “and they handed me the postcard right away.”

So Damian knows Bruce has come along for the ride.

He studies the new sketch. Damian’s drawn Santa’s factory on the beach, with little ghosts in lieu of elves. “It’s Carpinteria,” he says. “Santa Claus Lane.”

“Didn’t they move Santa to Oxnard?”

“Yeah, but see the ghosts? That means Summerland.”

It’s an obscure bit of lore, but Summerland was named for the Seventh Heaven of the Spiritualists.

“And people say Gotham is crazy,” Bruce mutters. He holds out his hand.

“What?”

“The keys— I’m driving the rest of the way.”

-

There’s a new Santa in town, and according to the locals, he’s riding an ostrich on the beach. They don’t know what to make of this until they pull up at the beach and see the ten-foot inflatable that’s gone up in the last thirty minutes.

Bruce is at a loss for words. “This is _absurd_.”

“No, it’s not,” Dick says. “That’s our final clue. He’s waiting for us in Ostrichland.”

“Why _Ostrichland?_ ”

“It’s bird-themed.”

“It’s _absurd_.”

What’s absurd is Bruce’s relationships with other people— other people in their _family_. Invariably, he pisses someone off and Dick has to come running to fix things. Dick is fucking Sisyphus and Bruce is his boulder, which is to say Bruce’s pigheadedness has made an absurdist out of Dick, and no one but the Joker gets the joke.

Dick’s the punchline, and Bruce just—

Bruce doesn’t know.

“Bruce,” he says, “you’re not going to call Damian absurd to his face.”

“Of course not.”

“You’re not going to ask him why he’s brought Florida to California.”

The corners of Bruce’s lips twitch. “No.”

“You’re not going to fuck up this reconciliation.”

“No.” Bruce looks at him, utterly serious. “I’m going to bring him home.”

“Good.” Dick exhales. “Good.”

It’s almost closing time when they arrive at Ostrichland, and they stop in their tracks when they see Damian perched on the roof of the souvenir shop. He’s wearing one of Dick’s hoodies and it dwarves him, makes him look ten instead of thirteen. He’s the only figure in sight; it’s a cold day, and all of the visitors have gone home.

Bruce gets shy. “You go first,” he says to Dick. “He put on this scavenger hunt for you— he wants to see you.”

Dick thinks about telling Bruce that Damian wants his dad— that it was Bruce’s fault for ignoring the missing black book, prioritizing Gotham over his lost kid.

But this is the home stretch. No more arguments— it’s time to bring Robin home.

“Damian,” he calls out before he’s even reached the building, and the kid looks up with bright eyes— brighter than Dick’s ever seen them.

“Grayson!” Damian leaps off the roof and hurtles towards him, and Dick catches him and sweeps him into a hug. “You remember?” Damian asks, almost giddy with happiness. “You remember everything?”

“I remember _everything_ ,” Dick promises, and the look of wild joy on Damian’s face breaks his heart. “I’m sorry, Damian. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when things were falling apart.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Damian says, voice muffled in Dick’s shoulder. He’s still clinging to Dick like a barnacle; Dick boosts him up to get a better hold on him, and he tightens his arms around Dick’s neck. “I tried to kill KGBeast for you,” he confesses. He won’t look up; Dick can feel him smushing the cold tip of his nose into Dick’s neck, and this, all of this is Bruce’s—

“Are you mad?” Damian asks softly.

“Bruce tried to kill him too,” Dick says, and the boy reels back in surprise. “I’m not mad at either of you.”

It’s the right thing to say. Damian’s still clinging to him, but he’s loosened his grip.

Dick sets Damian down. “It would be hypocritical of me,” he admits. “I thought about killing him too, you know. It did seem like the practical thing to do. He targeted a civilian— the woman who’d taken me in when I’d been Ric. I owe her a safe life, and what’s to stop him from going after her again after he gets out? But—”

“You’ve taken Father’s lectures to heart,” Damian concludes.

“No,” Dick says. “Because we can’t play judge, jury, and executioner, Damian. We’ve already lost the people’s trust — we won’t regain it by murdering criminals. And if the people of Gotham don’t trust us, if they outright _hate_ us, then what are we doing this for?”

“What does it say about them,” Damian asks bitterly, “that they side with murdering filth?”

It’s a question they’ve all been asking themselves lately. Dick is at a loss for a good answer— not one of those logical fallacies Bruce tries to pass off as philosophy, but a _real_ , justifiable reason why they are still doing this when the city venerates supervillains as revolutionaries.

“It doesn’t matter,” Damian says at last. “The people have the right to be mad at Father. He lost Gotham — first to Bane and then to the Joker. He was _weak_.”

“He was _distracted_.”

“But if he’d let Todd kill the Joker, this could have _all_ been prevented.”

“Damian,” Dick says, and then he has to stop, because Damian is _right_. They know this— every single one of them knows this. The only justification for Bruce’s cardinal rule is _public relations_ , which has nothing to do with morality.

“You don’t like what I’m saying,” Damian says, not quite defensive, but already resigned.

“Walk with me,” Dick says, and Damian obliges.

The ostriches regard them curiously as they walk past the enclosure without stopping to feed the birds. Damian’s happy to troop along in silence as Dick scrambles to say something that makes _sense_ , but Dick’s starting to realize that “making sense” is a lofty goal when it comes to their job.

Bruce dresses up as a giant bat to fight crime. That ship sailed a long time ago.

“Maybe we could have put a bullet in the Joker,” Dick says finally, “but he had acolytes, Dames. There would have been another Joker. Another Punchline. The Joker’s a product of nihilism, and we can’t stamp out nihilism by killing it. It just doesn’t work that way.”

This much, he knows, is true.

“So— what are we supposed to do? Fight them, send them off to Arkham, wait for them to escape, and then repeat the process all over again? That’s _absurd_.” Damian glances over at the gift shop, where Bruce is trying to lurk out of sight. “Father doesn’t _strike_ me as an absurdist.”

“It doesn’t matter what Bruce is or isn’t,” Dick says. “Damian— when we put away Dr. Pyg, we saved people, right?”

Damian nods.

“And when we got rid of the Court of Owls, we made Gotham a better place, yes?”

“Infinitesimally better,” Damian allows.

“When we did these things— did it feel like pushing a boulder up a hill?”

“No.”

No— because they _saved_ people. It doesn’t matter that Arkham has a revolving door; the good they’ve done can’t be undone, and that has to be enough.

“Sisyphus had the rock and nothing else,” Dick says. “He didn’t have any other ways of measuring his progress. But we have the whole _city_ to measure what we’ve done, and even if everyone hates us right now, at least they’re alive to do that.”

Damian stays silent.

“Come home, Damian,” Dick says, wishing he had a better argument. “Just—”

Damian slips his hand into Dick’s.

-

They circle around the emus and loop back to the front of the souvenir shop, where Bruce is waiting for them with a stuffed ostrich.

“Is that supposed to be a consolation prize?” Dick asks, amused. “Sorry we don’t have room for a real ostrich at the brownstone, but here’s a lookalike to make you happy?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Grayson,” Damian says, but he’s hiding behind Dick. He’s gripped a handful of Dick’s jacket and he’s not letting go.

Bruce takes a few steps forward, and then stops when it’s clear that Damian’s not committing to this happy reunion yet. Dick can see the wheels turning inside Bruce’s head — does he kneel down and open his arms? Does he approach Damian first?

Bruce doesn’t do either. Instead, he wordlessly holds out the stuffed ostrich.

After a beat, Damian ventures forward and takes it. He turns it over in his hands, and Dick sees a flash of gold— it’s the Robin pin fastened to the toy’s breast.

“I know you said you didn’t want to be Robin anymore,” Bruce says. “But— I kept this anyway. I hoped you would want it back.”

“What if I don’t want it back?” Damian keeps his voice steady, but he’s already beating a hasty retreat behind Dick.

Dick steadies him with a hand to his shoulder— Damian needs to stand his ground.

“That’s okay too,” Bruce says. “You’re my son, Damian. I want you home— just as you.”

Damian’s biting down on his lip. He never does that, and Dick can see Bruce’s heart break.

“I should have come to look for you,” Bruce says. “I failed you, Damian. I failed you and your brother—” he turns to look at Dick — “I know I failed you, Dick, even if you’ll never say so. But I want to fix things.”

It’s—

It’s more than Dick thought he would get.

“Can you forgive me?” Bruce asks quietly.

Damian unpins the _R_ from the ostrich. They watch as he pins it to the inside of his hoodie; he’s still not saying a word, but he’s no longer holding himself stiff as a board.

He’s cradling the stuffed ostrich to his chest.

It’s a start.

Bruce inhales wetly. “I’ll go bring the car around,” he says, and Dick watches him go.

He wraps his arm around Damian’s shoulders, and Damian turns to hide his face in Dick’s jacket. His shoulders are shaking; after a moment, a patch of wetness blooms across Dick’s shirt.

Dick holds his brother tight.

It’s enough, he thinks. This right here— it’s enough.

One must imagine Sisyphus happy.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Camus's _The Stranger_.


End file.
